ON THE BLADE
The Dark whines.
And falls.
I also fall
On the dissevering Knife.
And I push
Both left and right,
And cry, grieving,
From the tender balde.
It hurts to be three.
And I shout, I shout,
For someone to come,
To deny the Knife.
Only a Toll
Can tame
Its wintry world.
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